Lock and Key
by smallsteps32
Summary: Things rarely go to plan at MJN. Sometimes, it's easy to anticipate when things are about to go wrong. Other times... well, let's just say that Douglas should have realised that trouble was brewing when Arthur began waving handcuffs around. As much as he adores Martin, being attached to the Captain might cause some chafing.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello dear readers- it's been a while since I've posted here. I've missed you. : )**

**As always, I must start with a disclaimer - everything you recognise belongs to Mr Finnemore, the wonderful and talented.**

**Now that that's over, I'll let you read before I chatter on.**

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**Chapter One**

Once again, the bottle cap landed squarely in the centre of the empty glass. The clink was drowned out by Martin's red-faced, almost hissed exclamation, which made the few heads gathered in the small bar turn towards the source of the noise.

"Yes!" Martin very nearly punched the air in triumph as he swung around on the barstool to face his co-pilot. "You see, Douglas? It's all about patience and precision – the trick is spatial reasoning."

"Of which you have none," Douglas replied, doing nothing to fight the beginnings of a genuine smile as he folded his hands atop the bar. They had been at this for a while now, and the residual weariness of an unpleasantly long flight had begun to dissolve into a more enjoyable fizzle of exhausted contentment.

"Oh, don't be such a sore loser," said Martin, veritable Captain of the sore losers.

Douglas merely scoffed and sat back, sipping his apple juice as an excuse to watch the other man push back his stripes to reveal fairly toned wrists. As Martin reassembled their game, pushing the pieces back an inch, Douglas mused that nobody looking in would know that both of them were stone cold sober. Martin was taking far too much joy in winning for once, and was pink-cheeked and grinning as he counted out an even number of bottle tops, and he wasn't much better himself.

Not that that was a problem, of course. For a man that was, on the surface, arrogant, pernicious, and gratingly prissy, Martin had always been miles ahead of any other pilot in his sportsmanlike attraction to all manner of game. It was what had drawn Douglas to him in the first place in spite of the man's many glaring flaws.

Years into their acquaintance, it was positively charming.

Charm was not something that Martin exuded naturally – or deliberately. It was a sort of side-effect, rather than a conscious effort, Douglas had decided. Now, for instance, it was difficult to take his eyes from his friend as the other man flicked another bottle cap into the furthest glass in a single attempt.

"Your turn," Martin said, practically jittering with smugness as he pushed the glass ever so slightly into Douglas' vicinity.

"You should be glad we didn't set stakes," Douglas remarked as he accepted the caps and rolled the sharp edges between his palms. "If that were the case, I might actually start trying."

With that, he pinged a cap across the bar and was only mildly disappointed to hear it ring against the edge, only to bounce off and roll into Martin's waiting hands. It was worth it to see Martin preening, even if it did make him want to beat him even more.

Let it not be said that Douglas Richardson wasn't patient.

"You're just afraid that I'll wipe the floor with you," Martin replied, swinging slightly on his stool as he laid his arm across the bar as if he considered himself a movie star of sorts. It was ridiculous and yet his grin made Douglas' stomach flip as warmth settled at the base of his throat. "It's different on the bottom of the heap, isn't it, Douglas?"

"Oh, _really_," Douglas drawled. He straightened out of his slouch. Patience was overrated anyway. "Pass me that." He took the glass and pushed it to the far edge of the bar before catching Martin's eye and fixing him in place. "I bet you the squidgy one in the packet. Each round, we work through the ranks of next flight's cheese tray."

Martin look momentarily worried, forgetting his pride – then he flushed an arrogant red and scoffed, agreeing as he tugged on his tie to loosen the knot.

"Alright, you're on."

From that moment, their peaceful evening away from Carolyn and Arthur in a Caribbean bar reached the same peaks of competitiveness as a small scale war.

It was possible that, occasionally, their sportsmanlike bet got slightly _loud_. Martin failed tremendously at soothing the barkeep by reassuring him that he was a _Captain_, and therefore everything was perfectly fine, but Douglas slipped a comforting amount of cash into the man's hand and all was forgotten. Martin pouted, but said not a word as it earned them another hour of undisturbed frivolity.

Douglas won, of course. The alternative was unthinkable.

When they left the bar, Martin grumbling about the unfairness of betting for something that they didn't even have yet but smiling nonetheless, the sky was dark, the moon was high, and their elbows brushed every few minutes. They could have walked faster, but there was no rush to get back to the hotel, even though they were coming dangerously close to their allotted and required hours of rest.

It wasn't quite a date, but it could have been.

Douglas was too old to pretend that he wouldn't have been open to the idea. Martin became more attractive the more he endeared himself to him, and he was companion, best friend, and ally enough that intimacy was the only piece of their relationship that was missing… and it would have been so easy to ask for. It wasn't like Douglas hadn't proposed three times already – the stakes weren't nearly as high now.

Still, Douglas wouldn't ask. Martin was prideful and professional, and even if he didn't assume that a proposition was a joke at first, he would no doubt refuse on the bases that workplace relationships were not CAA approved.

"I'll beat you next time," Martin grumbled, shooting Douglas a sideways glance through te dark that was equal parts petulant and smug. It was charming in a way that made one want to bite their tongue to keep from retorting. "That was just luck in there."

"Oh no, Captain. That was nothing but pure, undiluted skill."

"It wasn't."

"I bet you a fiver it was," Douglas drawled.

"Ah, no, see – you're not tricking me again," Martin replied, raising a finger between them. "Fool me once…"

"Or eight times…"

Martin's elbow connected with Douglas' in a deliberate sway in his direction, and when Douglas turned to him, Martin pressed his lips into a sheepish line and stared up at the sky. He would have been whistling a noncommittal tune had he been a cartoon, scuffing at the floor as he slid his hands in his pockets. It was only a light nudge, but it was enough of a retort that they lapsed into a comfortable silence.

It was a nice night for a stroll, Douglas mused, and they had long passed the days when they had needed to fill the air with babble for the sake of cementing their right to be present. Douglas considered proposing another light round of the rhyming game that they had played on the flight over, but he saw Martin glancing at him from the corner of his eye, suspicious and obviously not intended for him to see, so he decided against it.

Neither of them said a word until they were back in the relative shelter of the hotel. They each had separate rooms this time, courtesy of last minute cancellations in the bargain-bucket travellers' lodge that was the usual haunt of penny saving tourists. Carolyn had been thrilled.

Their rooms were on opposite sides of the hall, so Douglas' back was turned and his hands occupied with finding his key when Martin paused outside of his own room.

"Right, well, I'll see you tomorrow," Douglas remarked. "Sweet dreams, Martin."

"Hmm? Yeah, of course – got to get some rest before the flight," Martin stammered. He did not, however, make any move towards his door. "Um… Douglas?"

"Yes?"

Hands already curled around the doorknob, Douglas turned back to the other man and was surprised to find him shuffling his feet, hands hooked in his pockets as he observed him just as keenly. There was clearly something on his mind.

"Well, ah, i-it's nothing really," Martin said, sheepishly biting his lip as he aimed for a nonchalant shrug and missed completely. "I was just wondering if you were alright. It's just, you've been a bit quiet."

"Me? _Quiet?"_ Douglas drawled… although, in sudden retrospect, he probably had been keeping his mouth shut. He had been enjoying himself enough without needing to create extra entertainment by prodding his friend.

"Well, not quiet, as such, just…" Martin trailed off just as his cheeks flushed red. A hand shot up to rub at the back of his neck. "I-I thought maybe there might be something on your mind, a-and as your friend – y-your Captain – a-actually your friend as well, you know that you can talk to _me_."

Martin was on his mind, but Douglas wasn't about to tell him that, no matter how much of a romantic he was. Then again, Douglas thought as he measured his expression so as not to seem wrong-footed… the fond look that crossed Martin's face whenever he mocked him for being a 'romantic sod'…

No.

Best not.

"It's nothing, Martin," Douglas assured him, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. "I'm just tired."

Twitching slightly, Martin nodded, brow furrowing. Then he jolted into action and clapped his hands together, wincing at how loud the sound was in the relative hush of the hall.

"G-good. Well – good," he said. "Well then… goodnight."

With that, Martin was gone, scrambling for his key. It took him a while, and he would no doubt continue to struggle, so Douglas took mercy on him and slipped into his own room. He would leave teasing Martin until tomorrow…

Or not.

Depending on Martin's mood in the morning, he might not need to tease him. It was something to look forward to, at least.

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**Aw, there it is. Chapter One, set loose on the world. It's been so long since I wrote a chapter fic, I'd forgotten how nice it is. At least, I hope it's nice.**

**This isn't nearly as long as my previous pieces, nor is it going to be. **

**I'm two terms into my second year of uni now, which is a long way from when I started writing fics, back when I was studying for my A Levels - gosh, it feels like ages. Because of that, I'm writing this whilst commuting to and from campus, and whilst waiting for lectures to start/get interesting. Length aside, hopefully this should be an improvement on my former writing style, or my writing course isn't doing what it should be.**

**I'm also churning out original novels (nothing sent out yet) and doing essays and things, so while updates will be frequent, they won't be as frequent as I used to be. Every other day might be a stretch.**

**Now that's all out of the way... I hope you all enjoyed this. Since Zurich time (wow, that's nearly a month ago - wasn't it good? Brilliant in fact?) I've only written pieces of flash fiction, so comments would be lovely if you have any. If not, just sit back and enjoy the anticipation.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again! I bring you chapter 2.**

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**Chapter Two**

It wasn't Douglas' habit to spend too long fussing over his appearance before work. Of course, he dyed the grey from his hair and dabbed on a little moisturiser, but that was all in aid of retaining his youthfulness, not pandering to his vanity. It wasn't as if he was looking to impress anyone. There were appropriate places to pick up paramours: weddings, reunions, bars… airfields were not one of those places.

This morning, however, Douglas spent almost three times as long as normal preening in front of the mirror. Hair sleek and shiny, uniform as dashing as polyester was capable of being… paunch not exactly at its best, but it would do. A mature look for a mature… intended audience. It was just getting unbearable to have Martin glancing at him when he wasn't looking his best.

Eventually, Douglas realised that he was staring at himself like a teenager, and made a hasty exit.

At the airfield, Douglas pulled up beside Martin's van and was almost blinded when the sun glinted off its side. Someone had obviously had a good weekend if he'd had time to wash his van. It was a shame that he'd missed the Captain dripping wet and out in the sun, Douglas mused, then shook the thought away. It was too early for that kind of daydreaming.

"Morning all!" Douglas called as he entered the porta-cabin. He set about slinging his coat over the rack that Carolyn had no doubt pinched from a skin on his way to his desk.

"Morning, Douglas," Arthur replied from the tattered sofa beneath the window.

"You are half an hour late," Carolyn said as she wandered through from her adjoining office. She didn't seem to have a specific task in mind as she glanced at the neat stacks of paperwork on Martin's otherwise empty desk. "If I were a less woman, I'd dock your pay."

"Let's be grateful that you're a paragon of virtue."

Carolyn rolled her eyes at Douglas' smirk but left him alone to rifle through Martin's desk. He couldn't imagine what for.

It was only then that Douglas realise what was missing.

"Where's our intrepid Captain?" he asked as he flopped down behind his own desk, pushing aside the log-book that was still lying open where he had left it on Friday night. "Don't tell me he's on GERTI already."

"He went for a walk."

"A _walk_?"

"Yes, Douglas. Instead of sitting here and annoying us all with his grumbling while you kept us waiting, Martin went for a walk," Carolyn replied. "I know it's not what I pay you for, but you could try doing the same next time you're feeling verbose."

"Hmmm?" Douglas blinked as he tore his eyes from the window, where he had been picture his colleague reappearing. "Are you offering to buy my silence?"

"Not even slightly."

As Carolyn returned to her office with an armful of Martin's files, Arthur sprung from the sofa and crossed the room. It was only now that he was moving that Douglas became aware of what was out of the ordinary. With every step that the younger man took, he rattled as he oversized pockets swung with the weight of their cargo.

"Hey, Douglas," Arthur announced as he grabbed a spare wheelie-chair and dropped own on the other side of his desk. "Guess what I found over the weekend – I'm really good at it – wait, no, I won't say any more. You have to guess."

Raising an eyebrow, Douglas sat back and folded his hands atop the desk. It was a bit high to put his feet up, but the temptation was there and this was more entertaining than trudging through his log-book.

"Could it be anything to do with what you've hidden in your pockets?"

"It does." Without any further ado, Arthur withdrew a cluster of colourful and shiny items from his pockets and poured them onto the desk with a thunderous crash. "It's magic tricks. I'm learning to be a magician."

"Well… that's definitely what it looks like."

Employing the appropriate degree of caution, Douglas picked through the assortment of bright objects – juggling balls, ribbons, a pot of glitter.

"I saw a documentary on Houdini," Arthur explained. "It was brilliant."

"I was under the impression that Houdini was an escape artist."

"He _was_. That's why I got _these_," Arthur replied. He held up a pair of handcuffs for Douglas to inspect. As he jangled them, his grin made way for an expression of intense focus, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. "Obviously Houdini used to get out of locked boxes, but I think I'll work up to that. Mum said if she caught me locked inside a cupboard, she'd leave me there. Herc would let me out, but she's right."

"Beginners _are_ beginners because they start at the beginning," Douglas drawled. He warily eyed the cuffs, imagining all the trouble that Arthur could get into; it would only be funny for a few minutes at most. "Although, I can't imagine why you would want to spend any more time locked inside small spaces than you already do."

"I don't mind," Arthur said with a shrug. "Besides, I spent all of yesterday practicing." He jangled the cuffs again. "There's a trick to these."

"Ah! Could that trick be a _key?_"

"Yep – but you're not supposed to let the audience know that you've got a key."

"Of course," Douglas assured him, and he couldn't help but grin as he watched Arthur dig through his trinkets.

"Here, try this," Arthur instructed. He plucked a bright tube of colourful material from the pile and thrust it into Douglas' hands. "You're supposed to put your fingers into the holes."

Even if Douglas hadn't already known what a finger trap was, the devious red that filled Arthur's cheeks as he held his breath would have been warning enough. Sighing, he decided to play along. He slid his fingers into either end of the trap, not so far as to get stuck but enough to convince Arthur that he was.

"Oh, would you look at that!"

"See, it's brilliant, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's marvellous."

"It comes off like this, see." Arthur removed the trap and dropped it onto the pile.

At that moment, the doors on both sides of the room cracked open. Douglas tried not to perk up at the sight of Martin, two cups of coffee in his hands, but he smiled and waved a little too overzealously and was rewarded with a bright wave.

Meanwhile, Carolyn rounded his desk and tutted at the mess.

"Oh, wonderful," she groaned. As she passed, she patted Arthur's shoulder and motioned for him to follow her. "Come on, you – to the plane. You can leave that here. Douglas has plenty of time on his hands to clear up while he's lounging around and wasting my time."

"Alright, Mum."

Arthur stood, but he did start to push the magic tricks into a pile at the corner of the desk.

"Not a fan of the Magnificent Arthur, Carolyn?" Douglas inquired.

"I have no issue with the magic tricks. As long as he doesn't try to vanish the passengers, he can do what he likes," Carolyn replied. "However, I would like to go over some SOPs."

"_Steward_ SOPs?" Martin repeated. Instead of returning to his own desk, he wandered over to hover at her side, eyeing the jumble atop Douglas'.

"Yes, Martin. Steward SOPs," Carolyn said. "Because what I've learnt from our many, many emergency landings is that once we're on the ground, you two sit in the flight-deck like a pair of idiots and leave the passengers to rot. Arthur needs to know what to do if something happens and I'm not there."

"Which is great because it'll feel like I'm in charge," Arthur chipped in.

"Yes, well, the more I think about it, the less of a good idea it seems," Carolyn murmured. Plastering on a sharkish smile, she patted Arthur's back and guided him towards the door. "Come on. The sooner this is over, the sooner we can concede defeat."

They left with the minimal amount of fussing, leaving Martin and Douglas alone.

Martin swung on his heels, coffee still in hand. His eyes lingered on the pile of magic tricks and he paused.

"Do I want to know?"

"Not at all."

"Right, well, um…" Martin prevaricated for a moment more before placing one cup down in front of Douglas and dropping down into the chair that Arthur had vacated. "That's for you. It's from the fancy place outside the airfield."

"What's this in aid of?" Douglas asked. He curled his palms around the cup, basking in the warmth, but made no move to drink as he kept his eyes trained on the other man's face.

Martin was flushed from the cold, freckles lost amongst the red, and his hair was blown out of place.

"It's not in aid of anything," Martin said, glancing away at the last moment. "I just thought you might need it."

"Thank you." Smiling through a fluttering of warmth in his chest, Douglas raised his coffee in a facsimile of a toast. Martin seemed content to just sit across from him, but Douglas couldn't help himself. "Really, Martin. What's this in aid of?"

"Nothing… really, I'm just in a good mood," Martin insisted, raising one hand in surrender. Then he grinned and drew his bottom lip through his teeth. "Actually, I um… I won three hundred pounds in the lottery and I've, well… I've been treating myself. I got the van properly cleaned inside and out, a-and uh… I could spare a bit for some proper coffee."

Douglas' brow furrowed.

"Since when do you play the lottery?"

"I don't," Martin replied. "But it's my birthday in a week and Caitlin sent me a ticket instead of a card. I don't think she expected me to win anything but… well… more fool her."

"Well, well, well…" Douglas drawled. "Congratulations, Captain."

"Thank you."

This time, as Douglas leaned closer across the desk and raised his cup, Martin matched the motion in a proper toast. His smug, shy smirk was wonderfully endearing and made up for the tepid liquid that sloshed from the spout over Douglas' thumb.

"So… your birthday," Douglas remarked, feigning nonchalance as he sat back. Already, his mind was whirring, but Martin didn't need to know that. He was suspicious enough as it was. "Does that mean I'll have to start hunting for the perfect gift?"

Hopefully, Martin would give away what he wanted. That would make the task even easier.

"What? Oh, nothing. You don't have to get me anything," Martin said, shaking his head. Even so, he pursed his lips and rapped his fingers on the desk, coyly turning his chair so that he could side-eye his co-pilot. "Although… you could do the walk around on my birthday. It's just a thought."

"A thought. Yes, it's an intriguing thought," Douglas agreed. He overplayed a grimace. "I _suppose_ I could do the heavy lifting that day."

"And give me the landing."

"And give you the landing, Captain," Douglas sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Thank you."

They shared one last smile, gaze catching for a second too long, before Martin rose and strode back to his side of the room. He made an awkward sound at the back of his throat when he saw the mess that Carolyn had made, and set about putting it right.

Douglas watched in silence, wondering all the while what he could _actually_ do for Martin's birthday. A gift seemed… childish or premature. The walk around wasn't enough. This was the one day a year that he could unabashedly give Martin his full attention.

Whatever he did, it had to be personal. It had to be special.

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**The plot is in motion, the foundations laid. I hope you enjoyed this installment.**

**Chapter 3 won't be too far in the future. When it does, plans will be made, incidents will occur, and Arthur's magic tricks go off with exactly the sort of bang that we all expect from him.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello all. Here's the next installment. They seem to be getting longer. That can only mean good things, right? I hope you all enjoy it, thank you for reading and reviewing.**

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**Chapter Three**

"Post-landing checks complete, Captain."

"Thank you, Douglas."

Martin's good mood had carried through to the day before his birthday. Throughout the flight home, he had been buoyant, letting Douglas' quick remarks bounce from him with a cheeky, slightly smug grin of his own. It helped that the sun had shone the whole day through, there had barely been any turbulence, and even Carolyn had been up for their word game as the passengers had slept through the journey.

A knock at the flight-deck door was followed by the squeak and swish, and the bustle of movement that epitomised their steward.

"Hi chaps," Arthur announced himself. "Mum says feel free to take your time. The passengers have cleared themselves already."

"Eager to get home, were they?" Douglas drawled.

"Oh yeah, they were practically ran out the door."

"Are we sure they weren't escaping?" Martin muttered.

Douglas smirked, but covered the better part of a laugh behind carefully crooked fingers.

"Anyway, they didn't make a mess, so I'll be gone soon too," Arthur continued. "Tell me if my hoovering gets too loud – or if you need anything."

With that, Arthur disappeared and a comfortable hush descended over the flight-deck, disturbed only by the click and buss of the instruments. Martin and Douglas flicked the last switches, to the side and above their heads, and put GERTI to sleep. Without the hum of the engines, the silence grew more demanding.

Stealing a sideways glance at Martin, who was preoccupied touching various levers and touching the dials to ensure that they were still in one piece, Douglas mustered his nerve. There was nothing to be afraid of really. They did this sort of thing all the time. Wringing his hands together for just a second, not long enough for Martin to see, he cleared his throat.

"Martin?"

"Hmmm?"

"After the flight tomorrow, you don't have any plans, do you?" Douglas inquired, feigning nonchalance.

At that, Martin abandoned his tasks and turned to him, blinking in not-quite-suspicion.

"No… why?"

"No reason," Douglas replied with a shrug. "I just thought you might fancy going to dinner with me – somewhere nice – away from Houdini's apprentice."

Martin's surprise made way for a sympathetic grimace as he caught Douglas' eye. The faint flush in Martin's cheeks was probably incidental as he sat back and tapped his nails once along the arm of his chair.

"Yeah – yes, you're right," he stammered, and then hastily corrected himself. "I mean, yes, that would be nice – a nice break, I mean."

"Hmm."

If the look on Martin's face was any indication, then they were both recalling Arthur's vivacious attempts to entertain them with his newly acquired talents. Arthur's magic tricks were mostly harmless; there had been one incident mid-flight in which he had triggered a small bang and flash, by accident it seemed, and they had been on the verge of calling in a mayday.

"Of course it would be nice _anyway_ – thank you," Martin said, shaking himself out of his trance.

"Good," Douglas replied. He plastered on a smile and fought the urge to grin as they set about preparing to leave.

Dinner in a foreign country, just the two of them. It wasn't quite a date but it would be nice… special. Martin didn't look worried, so that was reassuring.

The morning of Martin's birthday, the Captain was nowhere to be seen. Apparently he had helped Arthur pack their cargo into the hold – crates full of alcohol that a company in New York would be distributing to various bars across the city.

This worked in Douglas' favour as it gave him time to corner Carolyn.

"Oh, come on, Carolyn," Douglas didn't plead. "It's Martin's birthday."

"I am aware, Douglas," Carolyn replied. She was busy sorting through her appointment book, programming the answering machine, and performing a third indescribable task. Nevertheless, she was still capable of holding a conversation. "However, I am not giving you _more_ money. In fact, why aren't _you_ dipping into your pockets if this is really important to you? I'm assuming it is. You don't normally grovel."

"Because as our employer you are responsible for our accommodation and dining arrangements."

Pausing to fix him with a stern glare, eyebrow arched as high as it would go, Carolyn visibly restrained a sigh.

"I will pay for your meal only if you dine with Arthur and I," she said. "Otherwise, you're on your own. Martin knows that he's welcome to join us."

"No, that won't work. You're missing the point."

"Then what, pray tell, _is_ the point?"

Douglas inhaled sharply, but didn't speak the words on the tip of his tongue. Carolyn didn't need to know why it was so important to him that he and Martin dine alone. There was a difference between time alone in the flight-deck and time alone in a public place, where there was nothing to distract them.

Sighing, he placed his hands on the desk between them and forced himself not to sag as he implored her.

"Carolyn, please," he tried. When that produced no response, Douglas rolled his eyes and changed his tactics. "How about this? You _don't_ pay for dinner - you just give me a company card so that it _looks_ like you're paying. Everybody wins."

Carolyn's eyebrows rose to heights that Douglas hadn't thought possible.

"I thought you were explaining the _point_ of all this."

"The point is that Martin can't _know_ that I'm spending so much money on a single meal," Douglas explained through gritted teeth. It was embarrassing, for one thing – and suspicious; Martin wasn't as much of an imbecile as he sometimes appeared and was likely to realise that the posh restaurant they were visiting had cost a small fortune. Carolyn didn't need to know that either, so he quickly continued before her expression could turn shrewd. "You know what he's like. He's _proud_ and stubborn. He'll insist that he pays half the bill and that's not fair on his birthday."

"Oh, fine," Carolyn huffed. Her eyes didn't leave Douglas' face, but he seemed to have expended what little patience she possessed so early in the morning. "I will _think_ about it."

"You are a wise and magnanimous leader-"

"Douglas, if you do not go and do your job, and leave me to do mine, I will change my mind."

"Understood," Douglas grinned, smirking as he rocked upright and slid his hands into his pockets. The tilt of his hat matched the cock of his head as he swaggered to the door, eager not to rile her further. "I suppose I could assist my colleagues. See you in a bit."

With that, he sauntered from the office. As soon as he was out of sight, he increased his pace, heading outdoors towards the plane.

Despite his nerves, a familiar fluttering that was reminiscent of the days of his youth spent mooning over various girls and handsome lads whose blazers fit particularly well, and the anticipation of long-lost romantic entanglement, Douglas was confident. He was looking forward to dinner tonight. He had gone so far as to pack his smartest shirt into his flight-bag.

If he was lucky, Martin would be inspired and decide that he couldn't go another moment without falling madly for his First Officer.

Douglas found his esteemed colleagues in the hold, standing over a stack of waist-high crates. To his dismay, Martin was red-faced, lines pinched around his eyes as he pouted, and completely absorbed in the handcuffs that were swinging from Arthur's little finger. Arthur, for his part, was cheerful, putting both men on completely different pages, both of which were equally _wrong_.

"Yes, Arthur, I understand that, I-I really do, but there's a trick to it," Martin was insisting. He shot Douglas a sideways glance as the other man strode to his side, but was only distracted for a second. "Tell him, Douglas. Magicians _practice_. They don't just slap on some cuffs and then find a way out of them."

"Well, let's be fair, Martin," Douglas drawled. "Arthur _has_ had a lot of practice."

"Yeah, I have," Arthur agreed. He reached out to take Martin's hand, adjusting his grip on the cuffs as he did so. "Here, I'll show you."

"W-wait, hold on – why are you putting them on _me_?" Martin squawked. He didn't snatch his hand away quickly enough, and the wrist that had been brushing Douglas' was bound in a ring of shining metal.

"Because all the tutorials I watched are on other people. I don't know how to do it on myself," Arthur explained. He smiled in response to Douglas' scoff and flapped his hands a little, coming to stand directly in front of the pilots. "Here, Skip. I'll show you. It's easy really, once you know what to do."

With that, Arthur reached down to cuff Martin's other hand.

What Arthur actually did was snap the empty cuff around _Douglas'_ wrist.

As the cold metal touched his skin, Douglas jerked and let out an embarrassing noise at the back of his throat. The only saving grace was that Arthur faffed when he realised his mistake, and Martin was tugged to the side as Douglas' recoiled. His mistake was lost amongst the racket that the three of them created.

"Arthur, that's _my_ hand-"

"I know, I know – sorry. I'll get that off, sorry. I can start again-"

"No, Arthur, _don't_ start again! Douglas, stop pulling! I didn't want it on in the first place-"

"Yep, got it, hold on-"

"I'm not the one who's pulling, Martin-"

As if put under a spell, the three of them fell silent at once.

Martin was grumbling, grimacing as he tried to fold his arms whilst still attached to his co-pilot. Douglas was turning his arm one way and then the other in an attempt to find a flaw in the handcuffs as the foot-long chain clinked where it stretched between them.

Arthur, for his part, was searching through his voluminous pockets and dumping out the contents onto the lid of the nearest crate. Every now and then a slim item slipped through the cracks.

"Hold on, chaps, they're here somewhere," Arthur muttered.

"I hope you mean the keys," Martin snapped.

"Oh, calm down, Captain," Douglas said. "It's not as if we'll be joined forever. Even Arthur hasn't got that sort of power."

He tried to place his hand on Martin's arm in a placatory gesture, but the handcuffs constricted his movements. All that he received in return were a withering glare and another sharp tug that jarred his wrist.

"Aha!"

Beaming, Arthur threw up his hand to hold aloft a miniscule pair of keys. They glinted in the light and jangled beautifully. At the sight of them, Martin let out a sigh of sheer relief and Douglas had to admit he was relieved.

His relief lasted less than a second.

Before Arthur could even finish his triumphant exclamation, the keys slipped from his fingers. They dropped down onto the top of the crate… and then slipped through a crack, disappearing into the dark void within.

"_No!"_

Arthur scrambled for the keys in the same second that Martin did – both of them pulled at the top of the crate, Martin actually _clawing_ at the wood. He moved so quickly that Douglas was yanked after him. Douglas tripped Martin's side, knocking them both off balance.

In spite of his frustration, Douglas knew that there was no hope. The crates would need prying open with a crowbar.

Before he could suggest that Arthur go and find a member of the ground's crew, the light from outside was cut off. Carolyn appeared at the open hatch.

"What are you still doing – oh, god, I can't leave you alone for twenty minutes," Carolyn exclaimed, taking stock of the situation in a flash. She strode towards them, flapping her hands to encourage them to move. "We're supposed to be leaving, not faffing around in here. Go! Start the plane!"

"Carolyn, we are _slightly_ tied up right now," Douglas remarked, biting his tongue at the last moment. Smooth candour was difficult to maintain whilst Martin was yanking at his wrist, refusing to stay still as he shoved at the cuff around his wrist.

"Then get _un_tied."

"We can't," Martin snapped. Under Carolyn's sharp gaze, he had the decency to look abashed, dragging his lip between his teeth, but he didn't stop struggling. "Arthur dropped the keys in the crate. We need to get the lid off and-"

"We don't have _time_ for that," Carolyn interrupted. "Arthur, do you have another set of keys."

"No… sorry," Arthur replied, slowly burying his hands in his pockets. His expression brightened. "There is a trick though. I just can't remember what it is right now. Give me time-"

"We don't _have_ time," Carolyn sighed. She touched her fingers to the bridge of her nose and exhaled slowly. Then she looked from Martin to Douglas and threw her hands into the air. "You'll just have to fly like this. We'll get you out of those when we land."

The cold weight of dread dropped like a stone into the amusement that had bubbled up in Douglas' stomach.

"We can't fly like this," Martin exclaimed. He raised his arm for emphasis, dragging Douglas with him as he waggled his wrist. He didn't seem to notice the inconvenience. "Not only is that completely unsafe, _and_ unprofessional, if the CAA-"

"Martin, if you _don't_ fly like that, we lose thousands of pounds."

"Carolyn-"

"Come on, Captain. What's the harm?" Douglas interrupted, nudging his elbow into Martin's ribs. He was treated to a furious, red-faced glare. It was just short of charming. Again, Martin tried to fold his arms and again Douglas was jerked out of place, bumping against the other man. It was rather funny actually, now that he thought about it. "It's not as though we don't sit next to each other anyway."

"This is different," Martin hissed.

"You can get to grips with it on the flight-deck, while you put us in the air," Carolyn said. With that, she headed back towards the outside, clicking her fingers as she went. "Arthur, come. Pilots – _get on the plane_!"

"Brilliant – just great," Martin muttered, just softly enough that Carolyn wouldn't hear. "There is literally no way that this could go _well_."

"Oh, now, we don't know that," Douglas drawled. He turned to his friend and offered a daring smile. Inspiration struck him and his smile was bolstered by a familiar rush of smug pride, which usually came before a scheme or a well-timed jab. "Oh, I forgot. Happy Birthday, Captain."

The look on Martin's face as he physically dragged Douglas from the hold was worth the sting around his wrist. The Captain was delightful when he was on the right side of huffy. His mutterings were colourful enough that if nothing else, they would have something to laugh about over dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello readers! I hope you enjoy this installment. We're about half way through now.**

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**Chapter Four**

Douglas approached their flight to New York with a buoyant sense of anticipation. Dinner notwithstanding, the handcuffs added a certain element of chaos to the proceedings that he couldn't help but enjoy. Getting up the stairs and into the plane had been excitement enough to convince him that they weren't in too much trouble.

Trying to ascend the metal steps sideways, whilst Martin tangled their arms together in an attempt to duck past him had been one of the funniest things that Douglas had seen in a while.

Martin, it seemed, did not take nearly as well to their predicament. He huffed, red faced, all the way through the pre-take-off checks. He snapped at Arthur when he came into the flight-deck to offer coffee, then at Carolyn… only to hastily apologise when she reminded him exactly who was in charge.

Although Douglas was sure that the other man would calm down eventually, it wasn't nearly as amusing to watch as it might have been even a year before.

Manning the controls _was_, Douglas had to admit, a challenge. With the foot-long chain tying them together, they had to navigate the flight-deck with an air of precaution that wasn't helped but Martin's clumsy frustration.

It was doable.

The first problem came when they realised that in order to sit down, Douglas would have to take the Captain's seat. Only the Carolyn's wrath had Martin swallowing his indignation and taking the First Officer's seat. Douglas couldn't help the smirk that pulled at his lips as Martin made a point of enunciating every command twice as loudly as he normally would, and muttered periodically under his breath after every sentence shared with ATC.

"_This is typical, this is… we might as well go the whole way… fly her with our hands tied behind her backs… ditch the uniforms and wear party hats…"_

"I agree, Captain. Party hats _would_ make it absolutely impossible to be professional. Dare I ask, how silly _does_ a hat have to be before it stops it's deemed appropriate for celebration?"

"It's not just unprofessional," Martin retorted, voice rising to his normal, shrill volume as he ignored the jab. "This is completely unsafe. What if something happens and we need to take _immediate_ emergency actions?"

"Everything will be fine, Martin," Douglas sighed. "It's clear skies all the way." When this earned nothing but an irritable scowl as Martin burrowed further into his seat, he altered his approach. Whatever would make him happy. "That said, Captain… should there be an emergency whilst we're otherwise engaged…" Douglas rattled the cuffs, dragging Martin's arm with him. "I will bow to your commands."

Smugness crept into Martin's expression, even as he continued to pout. Still, it kept him quiet and put a temporary end to his bad mood.

They managed to get GERTI off the ground once they stopped yanking each other out of their chairs.

As much as he would have liked to pretend otherwise, it _was_ somewhat annoying to be physically jerked from one's seat. Douglas had to bite his tongue to stop from snapping at Martin the first ten times that his gut connected with the arm of his chair and his _actual_ arm ended up stretched across Martin's lap or chest while the other man fiddled with the controls. On another day, he might have been thrilled by the proximity, and he _was_ seized by a faint fluttering of fondness the _first_ time it had happened… less so the next, and the next, and then the next.

After all, he made the same mistake more than once. Martin's spluttering in that case had had less to do with embarrassment and more to do with agitation as he righted himself, nudging his hat back into alignment atop his head.

"No, stop it-"

"Stop _what_, Martin? I'm not doing anything I wouldn't normally-"

"Just sit still and let me-"

"That button is on _my_ side of the flight-deck-"

"Then press it with your other hand!"

The next problem to overcome was the fact that once they had worked out a rhythm, the chain linking them together would snag on the protruding controls and fill the flight-deck with furious beeps and monotone warnings. It was a small comfort that the engines kept humming. At least they knew that they weren't doing anything too dangerous.

A mere twenty minutes after taking off, the chain caught the switch that connected them to ATC. That wasn't a problem in itself… except they didn't realise at first that they had turned it on.

At the sound of Karl's voice, Martin flushed, and even Douglas was mildly ashamed to have been overheard bickering with the other man for seventeen minutes without pause.

"_Are you lads alright up there?"_

"Wh-what? Yes – Karl?" Martin stammered as he hastily reached for the radio. "H-how long have you been listening in?"

"_Not long. I didn't want to say anything at first, but…"_

"But what?"

"_Well, this is the sort of thing us Air Traffic Controllers hear before the plane takes a nosedive into a nearby field."_

"We're fine, Karl. Nothing to worry about," Douglas assured him as he smoothed down the lines of his uniform. "Just a technical error."

He knew that only Martin could see him, but in the midst of their argument over who should take control, given that both of their dominant hands were trapped, they had both become slightly more bedraggled than was entirely appropriate. Martin's hat was askew, and his own was on the floor somewhere behind them.

"_So no hostage situation?"_

"No, no… thank you, Karl," Martin sighed.

"_And you're not _each other's _hostages_?"

"Well…"

"No, we're not," Martin interrupted. "And none of this was standard phraseology, so we'll be signing off now-"

"_Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"_

"Goodbye, Karl."

With that, Martin switched off the radio and slumped back. He folded his arms sharply enough to jerk Douglas across the space between them. He muttered a quick apology and then lapsed into silence, laying his arm along the armrest so that the chain went slack between them.

For a while, a tense hush descended between them. It wasn't nearly as comfortable as most of their silences of late, interrupted only by the hum of the engines, but Douglas was pleasantly distracted by the way Martin's nails scraped against the armrest. The longer he watched, the more tempting it became to reach out and lay his own hand out, palm up, and coax Martin's fingers next to his.

Douglas did nothing of the sort, but the thought was bitterly sweet enough to make holding his tongue easier.

After a while, Arthur reappeared. He shuffled into the flight-deck, patting down a conspicuous lump at the bottom of his sleeve. There was a pinkness in his cheeks and a shifty edge to his gaze that promised nothing good.

"Coffees, chaps?"

"No, thank you, Arthur," Douglas replied when Martin continued to silently fume. It wasn't as if Arthur had done anything _wrong_, and he _was_ curious as to what the steward had in store. "Come back in half an hour and maybe we'll have changed our minds."

"Oh, alright," Arthur chirped. Instead of leaving he edged closer. For a moment, he looked between their seats, brow furrowed as if he couldn't recall whether they usually sat in that arrangement, then he shook himself and plastered on a grin, resting his weight against the back of Douglas' chair. "Hey, I had a thought about how to cheer you up, Skip."

"I don't need cheering up, Arthur."

"You say that, Skip, but I think you do. I know I made a mistake, but I can make up for it," Arthur replied. "Here, watch." With that, he stepped back and held out his arm, unbuttoning his cuff so that the tip of a red handkerchief poked out. "This one won't cause any trouble, I promise."

Huffing, Martin turned in his seat.

"No, Arthur – no more magic tricks!"

"Oh, come on, Martin. What's the harm?" Douglas drawled, reaching out to nudge the other man's shoulder. Martin shot him a withering glare, but he didn't move away or argue, so Douglas offered Arthur an indulgent smile. "Go on, Arthur. Dazzle us."

"I _will_ – hold on, wait. I just need to…"

It took a while, but eventually Arthur demonstrated half a trick in which he revealed a length of colourful handkerchiefs… and then became tangled in them, only to end with a flourish and a sheepish 'ta-da'.

Still, it distracted Martin enough that he barely complained the next twelve times their arms were yanked from one side of the space between them to the other. Douglas was even about to try and show Arthur how to _properly_ perform the trip, for the sake of showing off his talents, of course, until Carolyn interrupted them and ordered them all back to work.

She did have a fair point, Martin had pointed out.

"If we crash into the ocean, the first thing the CAA will want to know is why our corpses are linked together. I don't know about you, Douglas, but I don't want that to be the first line of my obituary."

"Oh, you know what people are like," Douglas drawled. "They'll assume we were tragic lovers."

"You wish," Martin snorted.

From the corner of his eye, Douglas saw Martin shoot him a sly sideways glance, smirking as the red began to recede from his cheeks. Then he hastily plastered on the same unhappy frown that he had been wearing all day, lacking the heat of before. Douglas made no effort to hide his own smile as he stared out at the sky, pretending that he hadn't seen the Captain's momentary mistake.

The moment GERTI was silent and the engines turned off, Martin and Douglas hurried, with the minimal amount of stumbling and colliding, through the cabin and down the steps. The plane was unusually empty, but Douglas paid it no notice. It wasn't as if Arthur had any passengers to look after.

When they reached the ground, their path to the hold was blocked by Carolyn. A short way behind her, Arthur was hovering, chewing the nail of his little finger.

"Pilots, there's been a mistake."

"A mistake? What do you mean a mistake?" Martin demanded, rising up on his toes to peer over her shoulder even though he didn't _need_ the extra height. He could see from where he was that the hold was already open and waiting. "Whatever it is, we can deal with it when we're _not_ cuffed together."

"Well, that's exactly the problem," Carolyn admitted, touching her hair in an uncharacteristically tentative motion. She sheepishly pursed her lips before continuing. "I'm afraid you're going to have to put up with one another for a little while longer."

"Wh-what? Why?"

"Why not?" Douglas chimed in, trying not to be offended by the panic in Martin's tone.

It was his wont after all. However, the slight pain that shot through his wrist with each one of the other man's sharp gesticulations made it difficult not to grimace and think wistfully of the moment that they were separated.

"Because the men that were hired to unload the crates and deliver them to their various destinations have already done it," Carolyn explained. "The crates are gone."

"W-well why didn't you stop them?"

"I paid them to unload as quickly as they could, the _moment_ you finished taxiing," Carolyn replied, as she placed a hand on her waist. "Sadly, Martin, I can't quite run after delivery trucks the way I used to. Arthur did try, but there reaches a point after which you have to stop and _not _get squashed by a Seven-Four-Seven."

"Fantastic – that's just brilliant, really it is," Martin exclaimed. He tried to throw his hands into the air, to run them through his hair and under his hat, but he ended up slapping the back of Douglas' hand against his cheek. Growling, he tried to pace, and was once against thwarted. "What are we going to do? We can't stay like this forever!"

"I doubt very much you'll be there forever," Carolyn drawled.

"I really am sorry, Skip."

"Martin, calm down. Here – stop that," Douglas instructed. Tugging Martin to a stop, he ran his free hand up and down his upper arm in what was meant to be a soothing motion. To his relief, Martin made no effort to shake him off, and he fumed quietly enough for Douglas to talk over him. "Look, this isn't a problem. All we need to do is find the crate with the keys in-"

"Those crates went to ten different bars!"

"So there are only ten possible places they could be," Douglas reasoned. He looked to Carolyn. "Carolyn, did the client give you a list of bars?"

"It was in with the courier's details."

"Good. Martin, you and I will start at the top of the list and Arthur can start at the bottom," Douglas continued. "If we head in different directions, in different taxis, we should be free in time for dinner."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Douglas, what are you doing?"

Slowly, side-eyeing Martin all the while, Douglas lowered the half-dialled phone from where he had begun raising it to his ear.

They had decided, amongst themselves and against Martin's vehement protests, to stop by the hotel before hunting down the keys to the cuffs. It had been a challenge manoeuvring once their free arms had been taken up by their bags, but now that their possessions were safely tucked away in the lobby, Douglas was sure that their predicament would be at its end shortly… within the hour, at worst.

"I'm calling a cab," Douglas replied. "If that's alright with you, Captain?"

"No, it's not alright. We can't take a taxi!"

"Dare I ask why not?"

"Because it's expensive, and we're got _ten_ bars to visit," Martin exclaimed. Reaching across Douglas' chest, he snatched the phone from his hand and pressed two-thirds of the screen at once, effectively silencing it. With that, he shoved it in Douglas' front pocket and then tugged off balance. Being colliding with did nothing to better his mood. "Come on. We'll take the bus – we'll find a bus and then we'll take it."

"Really?" Douglas inquired. Twisting his arm so that he could walk alongside Martin without straining himself, or tripping over the other man's feet, he was given no choice but to march out into the street. "I would have thought you'd prefer to travel away from prying eyes."

"I would, but sadly I can't afford to," Martin grumbled.

"If that's what's the matter, I would be happy to cover the cost."

"Yes, well, I'd hope so considering this is all your fault."

"_My_ fault?" Douglas repeated, yanking Martin to a stop before they could reach the road. "How is this my fault?"

Instead of answering straight away, Martin dropped his head into his hands – he tried, but was forced to bury his face in _one_ palm as the other dragged Douglas' knuckles up to slap his cheek. With a long exhale that crumbled into a groan, he dragged his hand over his face, then pushed it through his hair, knocking his hat to the side as he drew his lip between his teeth. It was the sort of exasperation that was weighed down by frustration, and stopped just short of being endearing.

It usually came in the wake of an argument, and Douglas somehow knew to hold his tongue.

"It's not your fault – I'm sorry, I know it's not," Martin said as he shook his head. He tried to pace, but again was pulled to a stop by the chain that spanned between them. "It's just – if you had come in ten minutes later… this is just my luck…"

"I came in to wish you a happy birthday," Douglas replied, unwilling to meet Martin's eyes for more than a moment. He was momentarily overcome by a prickle of discomfort, and grasped at a sliver of suavity. "Which, now that I think of it, I don't think I ever did. So, Happy Birthday."

"Thank you…"

Martin's whole form seemed to sag under the weight of his weariness. Since the moment they had met, Douglas had noticed the way that stress and more importantly arguments with _him_ seemed to take the other man's prim stature and stretch it until he flopped like a rubber band. Most of the time it was a relief – in its absence, a more relaxed, sarcastic, rule-ignoring Martin would take the place of the Martin that fretted over the little things. In the few occasions like this one, it was best to apologise and let matters lie.

However, Douglas had nothing to apologise for and he was damned if he was going to do so for the sake of peace. Instead, he decided to keep quiet until they were on the bus… which in turn was probably a good thing.

The bus posed more problems than flying an aircraft had.

The peculiar stare that the bus driver had shot them stoked Martin's temper back to where it had been when they had started. Then, to make matters worse, a lack of seats meant that they had to stand at the front and cling to the bars provided. As an individual traveller, this wasn't a difficult task – Douglas had spent many a day of his youth trundling round on buses as an excuse not to study/attend medical seminars/drive home with alcohol on his breath.

Attached to another fully grown man, however…

The moment the bus took off, Martin, with his poor balance, was thrown forwards and Douglas was yanked after him, recalling with far too much clarity why he was far better suited to piloting than surfing. When they _did_ get their feet beneath themselves, the handcuffs caused even greater problems. The chain between them tangled each time someone tried to pass them, on and off at every stop, and caught on the bars spanned the length of the vehicle.

While Martin huffed and grumbled, muttering and clinging to his hat, red in the face, Douglas could admit that he was feeling much the same. He had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at strangers, and it took all of his power not to simply grasp Martin's shoulder to keep them both upright.

The most tremendous stumble came when the bus lurched to a stop.

As they were thrown forwards, the chain tangled around a vertical bar and both men hurtled towards each other, rotating around a single point. They collided with a smack and a thud, chest to chest, hats flying, arms pinned to their sides.

"_Ow_, Douglas!"

"_Martin!"_

Shooting scowls at one another, they righted themselves and untangled themselves from the handrail. Douglas was dragged down into a hunch as Martin scrambled for his hat, tripping and stumbling as the bus rumbled into motion again.

"Martin-"

"Don't even start," Martin snapped as he righted himself.

Slightly wounded, Douglas pressed his lips into a thin line. He tried to fold his arms, and found again that he couldn't as he watched Martin shove his own hat down over his head with sharp, unhappy movements.

He was about to speak again when Martin let out a gravelly sigh and reached for Douglas' hat. Turning it between his hands, Martin came close and, as if unaware of the way that Douglas tensed, completely comfortable with the increased proximity, placed the hat atop his First Officer's head. He even paused to straighten it, tension easing once more as Douglas fought not to trail his eyes along the curve of his cheek and down to his chin.

"I don't understand how you're so calm," Martin muttered.

For a moment, Douglas didn't quite hear what had been said. He blinked as Martin moved out of his space, as far as he could given that they were still joined at the wrist. Then he cleared his throat in an attempt to clear his head.

"I'm calm, Martin, because there's nothing to worry about," he said. "It's not as if we're in mortal peril."

"You would think so," Martin muttered. He huffed as he found a way to stand at Douglas' side, but there was no heat behind his words. "I bet this isn't even new for you – you and your wild years at Air England."

Martin was wrong, of course, but Douglas couldn't find it in himself to disagree. He smirked as his arm brushed against Martin's, and under the influence of the swaying motion of the bus, they ended up leaning against one another.

"How much do you want to bet?"

The first barman hadn't seen the keys. He was gracious enough to crack open each crate just to check, but they found nothing.

Martin was waspish, Douglas was polite, and yet neither of them left the bar with any sense of peace. The man, while confused and helpful, hadn't stopped peering at them from the corner of his eyes. It was obvious that he wanted to ask questions, but he held his tongue.

"Now where?" Douglas asked.

Instead of answering him, Martin marched them away from the street and towards a quiet and open alleyway. Douglas had no choice but to trundle along in his wake, wincing at the cuff cut into his wrist.

"Martin, slow down. As much as I would like my arm back, there isn't _actually_ any rush-"

"We should take our clothes off," Martin announced as he ground to a halt.

"_What?"_

"Our uniforms – our jackets at least. We should take them off," Martin explained, voice pulled taut and clipped with agitation. He moved too quickly for Douglas to place a hand on his shoulder. "Did you see the way that man was looking at us? It's bad enough that this is unprofessional, and I accept that because _most_ of what we do _is_ completely mad, b-but I can't walk around having people know that we – two _pilots_ – have got themselves into this mess. It's embarrassing-"

"And it's better than people believe we're just two idiots that got stuck together?" Douglas interrupted as he tried to get to grips with Martin's panicking. It was something he was used to, and yet it always took place within the sheltered confines of the flight-deck.

"_Yes_, it's better, because then at least I don't have to explain that I'm a Captain, and yes, I'm stuck to my First Officer and I can't just have _one thing_ on _one day_ that isn't cause for ridicule-"

"Martin…"

"I just… _one day_, that's all I asked for," Martin continued as if he hadn't heard him. Already, he was trying to remove his jacket, entirely focused upon is frustration as it poured from his eyes and down through his hands, into every stubborn grimace and jerking movement. He got one arm free, and was then caught as he realised that he couldn't get the other sleeve free of the handcuffs.

The backs of his knuckles scraped Douglas' as he tried to push the material down, growling in defeat even though he didn't cease his efforts.

A damp wad of pity welled at the base of Douglas' throat, along with something warmer in his chest, and a faint prickle behind his eyes as he rolled them and sighed. Lessening the space between them, which was already minimal and crackling with the other man's red-faced stubbornness, Douglas shook his captured wrist to dislodge Martin's scrabbling hand. With the other, he grasped Martin's shoulder to hold him at arm's length.

"Douglas-"

"Martin, stop it. Calm down," Douglas instructed. "This isn't helping anyone."

"Fine –fine, I won't – fine."

Martin tried to pull his jacket back over his shoulders, but with one arm restrained and the other on the opposite side of his body, he couldn't quite reach without developing a sudden talent for contortion. His failure only served to make his frown even more dire, digging trenches into the lines around his eyes.

Without a word, Douglas reached around him, over his head and around his back, to pull Martin's jacket within reach. He took care not to meet the other man's eye, even though he could _feel_ Martin's gaze burning at his cheeks, as he helped him guide his arm into the sleeve. It wasn't worth the fight, or whatever would happen if they stopped and had a heart to heart.

Before moving away, as far as was possible given their predicament, Douglas pressed his palms to Martin's lapels and straightened the lines of his jacket as best he could. Martin's arm, following his own, was limp, and the other man put up no resistance. Only the slowing, steadier rise and fall of his chest was confirmation that he was calming down.

Douglas knew that he should have asked what was wrong. He didn't want to ask.

"You know, Martin, nobody's judging you. Nobody cares that we're stuck together," he said lowly as he shifted back. "Better a Captain attached to his First Officer than a naked man attached to a pilot. Be glad you couldn't get this off. People really _would_ look then-"

"It's not that…" Martin sighed. He tried to rub a hand over his face and _again_ slapped himself with the back of Douglas' hand. This time the motion was met with nothing but resignation.

"Then what is it?"

"It's nothing, I… I've been great lately – I've been doing so well," Martin explained weakly. "I should have known it couldn't last."

"Now, Martin, don't say that," Douglas drawled. He gave the other man a companionable slap on the arm, but that didn't make it better. In fact, it left him feeling slightly hollow, as if he should have done more. "Come on, chin up, Captain. There's four bars left, plus Arthur's… we'll be free in no time. Then there's our dinner to look forward to-"

"Dinner, right," Martin scoffed, not quite unkindly. With a gentle tug, he began moving towards the more crowded street again. "That's if we're not sick of each other by then."

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**Thank you everyone who's been sticking by this fic. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.**

**I'm away Sunday through to mid-week, and I've got a ton of coursework to do, so I'm not sure how long the next chapter will be... however, I am the queen of procrastination, and I'm sure that at some point I'll put aside something important and write this instead. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello - I bring you the sixth chapter of eight in total. I hope you enjoy it.**

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**Chapter Six**

The second bar that they visited wasn't the lucky recipient of the keys.

With Martin fuming beside him, anger turning inwards as the Captain fell uncomfortably silent, Douglas resigned himself to a few more hours cuffed to the other man. It wasn't a massive inconvenience, and he wasn't too upset to spend the day with Martin, but he had to admit that as calm as he was… their predicament _was_ beginning to grate on him. Whether it was Martin's foul mood or simply the hassle of navigating around another person, not being able to scratch his own nose without thwacking himself in the face with an unfamiliar set of knuckles, it didn't matter.

Nerves were frayed and tempers were beginning to rise. What he had imagined to be a day of celebration, of making Martin smile on his birthday and reaping the rewards, even if that was only his company, had turned irreversibly sour. Try as he might, Douglas only had so much patience, and resurrecting the mood was taking up every ounce of it.

The old romantic in him had so been looking forward to a dinner alone with his closest friend. The best friend in him had been ready to enjoy himself even if nothing came of the night.

Now, neither option seemed likely. Sitting at the back of another bus, elbows brushing with every jolt, Douglas found that he and the Captain were under a particularly stifling cloud of discontent.

There would be many stops before theirs.

As accustomed as Douglas was to Martin's poor moods when protocol had been broken (although in the past year or so he had been more lax when it came to procedure – now that they had begrudgingly admitted that he did in fact know the book better than they did), when he had lost too many games in a row (which happened less often now that he had strengthened the muscles dedicated to witticisms) or a passenger had talked down to him, this was less than pleasant. This was the sort of frustration which was devoted entirely to _him_, the sort that came with bears and lemons and stolen whiskey, and _this time_ he hadn't even done anything to deserve it.

Still, Douglas wasn't the sort to let anyone know that he was stung.

"How about this, Martin?" he started. "A birthday themed competition – whoever can name the most-"

"I'm not in the mood, Douglas," Martin grumbled. His free arm was propped up on his knee and he was spinning his hat through slow circles on the tip of his index finger. He had yet to drop it, and yet despite the intense attention the task apparently deserved, he didn't look any less glum than he had upon boarding the bus. "Just skip to the end where you win and I lose and you snaffle some massive favour-"

"Oh, come on, Martin. I did even make it to the end of the sentence. In fact, I'm not going to now," Douglas shot back. He glanced at the other man from the corner of his eye, but didn't linger. As much as he usually liked to admire the Captain's red-faced, freckly petulance, today it was making him squirm. "Although, if you'd played along, you might have won."

"You'd take it easy, would you?"

"No. I was about to propose a category in which I know you excel."

"Oh…" At that, Martin straightened out, accidently dragging Douglas' arm into his lap before easing the tension in his own limb. In the endearing way that he had mastered, he pulled out the silence until it was taut, fiddling with his epaulets, clearing his throat, returning his hat to its proper place atop his mop of ginger hair. "So, ah… what _were_ you going to suggest?"

"I'm not telling you now," Douglas replied, letting the words smack on his tongue. He tried to sit back and fold his arms, but the motion was ruined as it jerked both him and Martin towards one another.

"Oh, come on-"

"No, it was a heat of the moment game and you, Captain, well and truly missed the moment," Douglas said. "Furthermore, I'm not sure a Martin that only plays when he thinks he can win is a Martin that I want to play with in our current predicament."

"Our current predicament is not my fault!" Martin exclaimed.

"Well it's not mine either!"

"I know!"

The sight of heads turning in front of them had them both falling silent. Douglas did his best to reassert a sense of calm and poise as Martin flushed red beside him and tipped his hat down so that the rim covered his brow.

For a moment there was blessed peace, broken only by the rumble and clunk of the bus.

"Y-you know what? Dinner's off," Martin announced, far too abruptly. The caustic, yet weary, edge to his tone and the sharpness of his irritable movements caught Douglas off guard.

"What?"

"I'm tired, Douglas," Martin replied. "I'm tired, and embarrassed, and I've spent all _day_ stuck in _these-"_ Scowling, he raised his hand and shook the chain that spanned between them. "All I want when this is over is to go to my room and sleep – to be alone for a while. This day can't get any worse – it might as well end once we find the keys."

As he stared at the other man, Douglas was struck by the sinking realisation that he agreed. In that moment, he had no desire to spend the evening making small talk. And yet, the thought panged far more deeply and he had to resist the urge to try and wrap his arms around himself again, knowing that even if he _could_ have done, it would have looked more self-pitying than haughty.

As it always did in such situations, Douglas' tongue burned like acid and he couldn't keep from spitting vitriol… albeit, feeling far more like a damp dish towel than he would have liked whilst huddled in the back of a groaning public bus.

"Fine. A little peace and quiet should do nicely," he said. Then his temper dissipated completely and he was left to grasp for some way to close the conversation, and to quell the words that Martin was clearly itching to say. "Anyone would think you didn't want to be around me."

"It's not…"

Martin swallowed whatever he had intended to say before it could reach the air.

To Douglas' reply, the other man sighed a long, weary almost-groan. Closing his eyes, he dropped his head into his hands and rubbed them from his brow to his chin, shoulders squaring with agitation even as they slumped. It was the move of a man giving in – nothing like the waspish snips that Martin usually clung to as if they were an art he himself had perfected.

It also dragged Douglas down with him, so that in the end he was hovering awkwardly at his Captain's shoulder.

When Martin rose, he bumped into the other man and looked momentarily stricken at his mistake. It was only slightly more pained than his usual grimace. The temptation to offer comfort was easily discarded as they were both permitted the room to sit back, hands resting without choice on the seat between them.

Douglas could feel Martin twitching with frustration, and the light, feather-soft brush of his little finger and perfectly trimmed nail against his own knuckles was distraction enough to keep him from speaking. It was maddening actually. He wanted to be annoyed – _was_ annoyed – and yet he still wanted to shift his hand to the side and brush past Martin's; he would have held it, but for all of their closeness they had no sense of intimacy.

That was what dinner was meant to be about. So much for that.

"It's not about that, Douglas."

Martin's voice seemed to come out of nowhere. When Douglas realised that it was him that had spoken, he was shocked to realise that he could feel Martin's eyes on his cheeks, cutting more deeply than seemed possible. It was the sort of stare that he had felt from across the flight-deck time and time again, but the other man normally turned away before Douglas could get a good look.

"Then what is it?" Douglas inquired, forcing the words not to stick in his throat. "Forgive my confusion, but you seemed quite keen on the idea of dinner when I suggested it."

"I was – _am_, I just can't after today," Martin explained.

"Why not?"

"_Because_… b-because, sometimes I just need to walk away, a-and today is one of those days when I need to walk away."

"I'm afraid walking away is a bit of an impossibility right now, Captain," Douglas retorted, giving the cuffs a shake. He lowered them too quickly and the chain flicked painfully against his thigh, but he didn't care. It grounded him.

"I _know_ it is, and that's – Douglas, it's not that I don't want to be around you," Martin insisted, although the bite in his tone didn't recede. "I just – I-I-I can't do this right now. It's too much."

"You mean _I'm_ too much-"

"No, I mean this – these bloody things," Martin cut him off. He went to run a hand through his hair and almost knocked his hat askew. He was jittering, tapping his foot to an agitated rhythm but not once did he look away from Douglas. It was somewhat discomforting; reminiscent of being flayed open and inspected. "Douglas, I… you know what we're like…"

"What we're like?" Douglas repeated. His voice was faint as his eyes flickered towards the city passing them by outside.

He _did_ know what they were like. What _they_ were like – as _them_, without outside intervention. They could just as easily take chunks out of one another as live in each other's pockets. There was a back and forth to both their games and their disputes, but never once had Douglas felt as if he needed to be away from the other man – he may have paced into the Galley on occasion, when Martin's self-congratulation took a more predatory road (and oh, it had been years since he had used Douglas' downfalls against him) – but never had he disliked him enough to want him somewhere else.

That had always been Martin's game. It stung to know that no amount of camaraderie could change that.

"Yeah – what we're like… I mean, me more than you. You've changed – or you're _changing_, I don't know," Martin explained, losing all semblance of authority that his foul mood had given him.

"I haven't changed," Douglas said.

"You have. I can't even explain it," Martin replied. He was blushing so hard now that his freckles were almost invisible. "You're… you don't go out of your way to make my job harder – or you help me more, o-or you're happier – I don't know. I just know that whatever the problem is, it's not you."

"Maybe I never _was_ the problem," Douglas snapped, but he couldn't help the odd twist in his stomach at the thought. Again, he was glad that Martin had taken his hand from the seat between them, and for the first time felt a jab of anger at the cuffs that held them together.

It was so much easier to be together when it was a _choice_ – this – _this_ was agonising, he realised. Taking two stubborn men and telling them that they _had_ to get along was the ideal way to start a small war. It was no wonder their first few months together, locked inside GERTI without so much as a 'how-do-you-do?-this-is-the-man-that-has-your-dream-career', had been so rocky.

"No… I know," Martin sighed. He sagged again and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Douglas, I appreciate what you tried to plan today. I've never had anyone who wanted to do that for me – I-I'm not sure I still will after today, but… you're a good friend. My best friend actually – a-and that's why I need to be able to walk away. When I get worked up – wh-when things aren't going right – I need to walk away."

"Martin, we're together all the time," Douglas insisted. "These cuffs-"

"These cuffs mean I can't take a few minutes to breathe," Martin interrupted. He shot the chain a furious glare and then frowned as his face fell slack. "I like to think I'm a big enough man to see that most of our… disagreements… they're not my fault, or yours, but it doesn't help that I get so… so…"

"Worked up?"

"Exactly!" Martin exclaimed. An old lady in front of them turned around and he winced before continuing. "Sometimes… Douglas, I don't know whether it's because you're particularly infuriating, o-or because _I_ get too… too angry about these things, but I… for the sake of our friendship and our working relationship, I need to be able to walk away. You get that, don't you?"

Douglas did get it. He got it far too well. It was the first time the concept had ever been put into words, but for a fleeting moment he was caught by a flash of grief; it was the sort of reasoning that could have made marriages of years past so much easier to deal with.

"Douglas?"

"Yes, I understand," Douglas didn't look at Martin, although he was sure that the concerned softening of his voice was joined by a similar expression. Clearing his throat, he sat back and stared straight ahead, feigning nonchalance. "Fine. No dinner. We should have the keys within the hour, and after that you can have all the peace you want."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Three bars down, four hours gone, and they still hadn't found the keys.

Douglas remained securely cuffed to Martin and, as ridiculous as it seemed, he was beginning to think that they would be stuck together until the end of time. As they stood in the barrel store of the latest bar, watching the proprietor kindly peer into each newly delivered crate, Douglas was sure that he could feel his mind lapsing into a trance-like state. She was a busy woman, so he supposed that they should have been incredibly grateful that she had left a building full of customers without their host… but he couldn't muster the energy.

With another sigh, Douglas righted his ever-present lean so that he wasn't resting against Martin's side. The other man hadn't said a word, as he was just as exasperated as he had been on the bus ride over, but it felt pertinent not to doze off when there was still such a prickling sense of unease between them.

It was something that Martin was constantly scolding him for. His constant tilt '_wasn't_ _professional'_ and '_gave the clients a stilted view of what sort of airline we are'._ Still, Martin never scolded too hard; it was more of the same sideways glances and half-fond smiles that came with harmless jokes.

Now, however, Douglas paid closer attention to the bar's owner.

"I'm sorry, boys. There's nothing in here," she said as she rose to her full height and placed her hands on her waist. "Apart from what I ordered, that is. You'll have to look elsewhere."

"Fine… fine – that's fine," Martin sighed. He dragged a hand down his face and sagged as he forced a smile that turned into more of a grimace. "Thank you for your help. We're, ah… we're sorry to have wasted your time."

Every word Martin said was bitten out. Each time he made a disgruntled movement, Douglas took care to move with him, growing more accustomed to manoeuvring so that neither of them felt the sting of the handcuff against their wrist. Mercifully, the woman didn't seem to notice. If she did, then she was polite enough to acknowledge their poor position without drawing attention to it.

Even if she had, Douglas wasn't sure he had the energy to say something smooth and witty in return. His mind was far too clogged with thoughts of the evening that would never happen.

"No worries," the woman assured them as she led them out of the bar. "_I'm_ sorry I couldn't be of more help. Well… Have a pleasant evening."

They left without the minimum amount of fuss.

Martin got caught in the door and as Douglas tried to extricate the both of them, they bowled straight into the midst of a particularly raucous hen party. By the time they reached the street, Martin was red in the face and Douglas was sure that his hair was out of place. There was no grace to the proceedings.

The day simply kept going, and now nothing could make it worse. For all he cared, they might as well hang around and listen to the metallic sounds of the city around them. Maybe if they waited long enough, his own good luck would drop a chainsaw from the sky and hack the handcuffs in two… unlikely, but it wasn't the worst thing that could happen.

Before he could hail a taxi, ignoring Martin's throaty noises of indignation as a bus sped past them, Douglas felt his phone vibrate against his thigh. His movements were sluggish as he retrieved it. He was almost dreading speaking to whoever had called.

"Who is it?" Martin hissed in his ear before he had even answered the phone.

"I am many things, Captain, but I'm not a Seer," Douglas replied, his languid tone frosting over as he glanced at the screen. He sighed. "It's Arthur – hold on." He pressed the phone to his ear. "Arthur, what is it?"

_"__Douglas, hi! Um, are you nearly done searching the bars?"_

"Not yet, Arthur. Just a few more to go and we'll be back."

"_Oh, brilliant. You don't need to go to the last ones – I found the keys!"_

"You did?"

Douglas's eyebrows rose to his hairline. Pressing the phone closer to his ear, he turned to Martin and mouthed '_he found them'_. The way that Martin's eyes lit up as he tipped his head back with relief sent the ghosts of warmth twinging through Douglas' chest. It was a sour glow though.

"_Yeah, they were at the bottom of a crate full of bright blue liquid. I think some of the bottles were actually glowing-"_

"That's great, Arthur," Douglas interrupted. "Where are you now?"

"_I'm heading back to the hotel,"_ Arthur replied. "_Shall I meet you there?"_

"Yes, alright. We'll see you in about an hour."

Douglas sighed again as he tucked his phone away. He seemed to have nothing but sigh since he and Martin had called off their dinner. It wasn't quite the birthday celebration that he had had planned. He was jolted from his wallowing by Martin's hand on his shoulder – the other tried to grasp the other, but as Martin span him around, their arms knocked together and intercepted his path.

"Was that it? Where are we going?"

"The hotel," Douglas replied. His breath caught in his throat as his vision was filled from top to bottom with Martin's face, lined with desperation but charged with frantic excitement as he squeezed the other man's shoulder. Eventually he found something to say. "Anyone would think you were pleased."

"Oh, I _am_," Martin beamed. He practically groaned with relief. "Sweet, sweet freedom."

"I really am sorry."

"I know, Arthur," Douglas reassured him. He used his free hand to pat the steward's shoulder and plastered on a weary smile. Now that they were in the hotel lobby, each holding out their bound wrist for Carolyn's inspection, both he and Martin had calmed considerable. There was still a certain discomfort between them, wriggling in the air, but that didn't mean he was going to take it out on Arthur. "Although, might I suggest you perform magic tricks that _don't_ involve audience participation?"

"Oh, yeah, of course," Arthur said as he pushed a hand through his hair. "I was thinking about that actually-"

"I didn't mean give up," Douglas hastily amended. "Just tone it down."

"Oh? Really?"

Surprise softened the lines of Arthur's face and pulled his voice a little higher.

"Of course I mean it," Douglas replied. "A little more practice and you could entertain the passengers on those long-haul treks across Asia."

"Let's wait and see before we start giving Arthur any _more_ duties," Carolyn cut in before they could continue. She was working the mechanism on the cuff around Douglas' wrist, shuffling key into the stiff lock. "Nothing takes place on my plane until I've had time to veto it."

"Perish the thought."

While Douglas waited for Carolyn to release him, he watched Martin from the corner of his eye. The Captain had remained stonily silent from the moment they had stepped foot in the hotel. It wasn't the miserable quiet of a wounded man, nor the grumbling that came with repressed anger. Instead, there was something contemplative in the hush and Douglas wasn't sure what to make of it.

Well, he _did_. He wanted to ask what was wrong.

Douglas did nothing of the sort.

"There," Carolyn announced as the cuffs clicked open. She stood back, taking the chain with her as both pilots shook their hands out. "Now that you've been released from each other's clutches you're free to do what you like with the evening. I would recommend getting the prescribed amount of rest so that we can actually leave on time in the morning."

"Ten o'clock start, is it?" Douglas remarked distractedly. Although he addressed her, he didn't look away from where Martin was flexing his fingers and huffing ever so slightly.

"Eight – thirty," Carolyn replied. "And not a moment later. Martin – I expect you to get your First Officer onto the tarmac on time even if you have to drag him out of bed."

Instead of a waspish reply, there was only silence. Martin was staring into space, rocking slightly on his heels.

"Martin," Carolyn repeated. She seemed to be one action away from prodding him.

"Hmm? What?" Martin jerked back into alertness, blinking between them. In seconds, his frown was firmly back in place. Whether he knew what had been said to him or not was a mystery, but he stammered out his excuses. "Y-yes, yes… sure. Of course. I'll be sure to get on that."

"You're not even listening, are you?" Carolyn sighed. Thankfully, she was as eager to leave as Douglas was beginning to feel. "Oh, go to bed, the lot of you."

With that, she turned her back on them and strode from the lobby. Arthur followed in her wake, lingering long enough to bid both pilots their goodbyes. Once they were gone, Douglas and Martin were left alone.

Still, Martin didn't seem entirely in touch with the world around him. He was still rubbing at his wrist, although there wasn't a mark of any sort.

"Well… I suppose I'll bid you adieu, Captain," Douglas remarked. When he didn't receive an immediate response, Douglas shifted closer and leaned into Martin's line of sight. It wasn't that he was itching for attention. He just needed acknowledgement. "For what it's worth, the day hasn't been an absolute loss. You're still a year older… I haven't had an awful time, all things considered…"

Martin still didn't respond.

With a frustrated huff, Douglas reached out to lightly touch Martin's arm. The other man didn't recoil, but he did startle and blink as if stunned. There was no apathy in his gaze as he met Douglas' eye.

"Wh-what?" he stammered. "Did you say something?"

"I… I said Happy Birthday," Douglas replied. With one final pat on the shoulder, he left Martin standing in the lobby and headed towards his room.

With nothing else to do, Douglas was genuinely considering going to bed early. His hotel room was good enough, sans fluffy dressing gowns but with plenty of wardrobe space and a little en suite with even smaller soaps, and yet he couldn't find a single thing to do. Television didn't offer any solace and his book wasn't holding his interest. It was late enough that his daughters were fast asleep in England, so there wasn't even any point calling them for a quick chat.

Douglas was lying with his head on the pillows when he heard the knock at the door.

It was soft, cautious, barely a knock at all. A moment later, a louder, sharper, more confident pounding rang out across the room.

Rising slowly to his feet, Douglas tried not to be too agitated by the disturbance as he answered the door. So dedicated was he to his air of nonchalance that it took a second for the surprise to set in when he was met by Martin, dressed in casual clothes, cheeks flushed faintly pink with a sheepish sort of embarrassment that he had grown far too accustomed to.

"Martin?"

"Douglas –yes, hello," Martin replied. He awkwardly cleared his throat but didn't continue.

"Was there something in particular that you needed?" Douglas inquired, resisting the urge to bite his tongue even as he gripped the hard edge of the door.

As pleased as he was to see the other man, caught despicably in his thrall as warmth curled and wafted from his chest out into his limbs thanks to nothing but his presence, he couldn't help but be confused. If it was another argument that Martin wanted, he wasn't in the mood.

"Oh, no, nothing important," Martin assured him. He managed a weak smile and a lop-sided shrug, but neither inspired much confidence. He rubbed at the back of his neck before continuing. "Well, I… I-I wondered, seeing as it's still my birthday and we've, ah… we've had a bit of a rotten day-"

"A bit of a rotten day?"

"Alright, it was mostly… I'll admit that I wasn't exactly at my best today," Martin continued. "B-but I'm willing to put that behind us. That's why I'm here actually. I wondered if you wanted to do dinner after all."

"Oh… you…?"

To his shame, Douglas couldn't quite think of what he was meant to say. Of course, he thought, yes. He definitely wanted to do dinner. Anything was better than sitting alone, even more so if the company was a dear friend. By the time he regained his senses, Martin hadn't quite gathered his nerve enough to be smug or too arrogant. He was still red-faced though, and shuffling his feet as he bracing himself for sharp words.

"Of course I'd like to," Douglas said. "Just give me a moment to prepare. Most restaurants aren't fans of their customers turning up in nightwear."

"Oh, god, no – I mean, yes, sure. I'll wait," Martin exclaimed. Still, he smiled, more of a blushing smirk actually, as Douglas pulled the door not-quite closed and didn't-really hurry to change into something more appropriate for the outdoors.

As Douglas sorted himself out, he tried not to raise his hopes too high – still, reconciliation was always nice, and dinner was sure to be even nicer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello readers. I've been working on this for the best part of the morning, and here it is. The last chapter. I hope you all enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Dinner, when they finally got around to it, was tense. That was the only word that Douglas, king of articulation, could find to describe their predicament. Conversation was no less simple than it always was, and yet, sitting across from Martin and picking at his own food, Douglas was sure that the air around them had never been more limp – each time they built up any kind of repartee, it frayed at the end and faded into nothing, leaving an empty silence through which they could only clear their throats and pretend that they had better things to think about.

It had started well. After such a miserable day, Martin had seemed eager to make amends. They had even shared a few jokes. Douglas had had a particular restaurant in mind, although he hadn't made a reservation (somewhere low-key so as not to raise Martin's penny-pinching hackles) but he had seen the other man glancing eagerly through the window of a different establishment and promptly changed his plans. It was worth it to play the part of all-knowing companion, having known 'instinctually' where to go.

Being impressive was easy when those around him provided the necessary cues.

Now, dessert had been finished and the two of them were sitting on opposite sides of a round table, both visibly holding their tongues. Douglas knew that he should have been saying _something_ – when he had conceived the idea of dinner, days ago now, he had been eager, excited, sure that once they were there he would know exactly what to say. Now though… all he had was a lump in his throat.

Itching to do something, Douglas folded his paper menu into neat lines. A few more lines and he held a sharp edged aeroplane. Brightening imperceptibly, he pointed the end towards Martin and lifted his gaze – only to catch Martin's eye and freeze.

"This is nice," Martin remarked. He was fiddling with the edge of his glass, tapping his nails against the curve, but was otherwise deliberately languid, so much so that he looked almost stiff.

"You're enjoying yourself then?" Douglas asked in lieu of a response.

"Hmm," Martin replied noncommittally. He blushed ever so slightly and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, awkwardly adjusting his posture. "Well, I mean, I imagine it would have been nicer if we hadn't…"

"If you hadn't spent your birthday pitching a fit?"

"I wasn't – no, that's…" Martin stammered, but then he saw Douglas' good natured smirk and sighed – a sharp, short sound. His own lips quirked into a half-smile as the shrill edge left his tone and his voice softened. "My birthday's not over yet. Like I said, this is nice."

"You're welcome," Douglas said. He tapped the end of his plane against the table top, although he couldn't quite take his eyes from Martin's. Something in his chest wanted to rise up and take control of his tongue, but mercifully, the other man was as incapable of maintaining a silence as he had ever been.

"A-and you're, ah…" Martin stammered, gesturing as if he had something important to communicate, as simple as the weather and yet impossible to articulate. "You're…"

"I'm?" Douglas prompted. He resisted the urge to lean towards him.

"You're…"

Martin made a dismissive, round-about motion with a wave of his hand before slumping back against his seat. Douglas took that as his cue to escape the nervous tangle that they had stumbled into.

"Shall we get the bill?" he suggested.

"Oh, god yes," Martin exclaimed. Relief brought a starker flush to his cheeks and gave his movements a tad more confidence. It was reassuring.

They bickered over the bill, Martin seeing through Douglas' pitiful attempt to cover the cost of the dinner. Eventually, they decided to split it, as Douglas had promised a birthday dinner out, but Martin had made their day more difficult than it had needed to be. They paid for each other's meals and made their way out into the street, Douglas still turning his paper aeroplane between his hands.

It made it easier to walk side by side through the city. The hotel wasn't far away, but they walked slowly, taking their time. Martin was trying to start a conversation, mentioning something that he had observed at the airfield in Fitton, but Douglas wasn't listening. Normally he could stroll without a care with his hands in his pockets, but tonight his mind was wandering paths that even he couldn't quite describe, unsure whether he was pleased or mournful.

Douglas was so deep within his own head that he didn't notice Martin falling silent until the other man pinched the paper plane from between his fingers.

"What's this meant to be?" Martin inquired. He shot Douglas a sideways glance as his lips quirked, and Douglas was caught. There was something charming about the other man when he was in a playful mood, that made Douglas want to prod him to see what else he would say even as it wound him up to no end.

"I know that you're used to being _inside_ things that are shaped like this, Captain, but I would have hoped that you could recognise a plane when you see it," he remarked. He tried to reach for the plane, but Martin snatched it out of his reach.

"This would never stay up," Martin said.

"If it were made of steel, perhaps not," Douglas agreed. "However." This time, he took hold of the plane and held it up. He flicked it into the air, where it soared – until it collided with the underside of a passing taxi's wheels. Still, his point had been made. "There see."

"That was a lucky gust of wind!"

"Was it?" Douglas drawled. He caught Martin's eye and couldn't help but smile. "Or am I just particularly good at construction."

Martin simply rolled his eyes, and soon enough they were moving again. After a while, Douglas began to wish that they were still cuffed together. Sure, it had caused more problems than it had solved, but at least… Douglas' arm brushed Martin's and all thoughts on the matter were blown away. This was nice. Martin was right, it was lovely. And yet…

It wasn't enough.

Like a physical ache, Douglas longed to swing sideways and make more contact.

He didn't even realise that he had strode ahead of Martin until he ground to a sudden halt and Martin collided with him. There was a stumble and a tangle of arms, and within moments they were both upright, facing one another. Douglas took his hands from Martin's arms and stood back… and he couldn't stop his eyes from roving over the freckled cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and blue eyes hard with frustration at his own clumsiness.

The pull was back – the ache that rose like a lump in his throat, like a hand closing around his ribcage and _tugging_. He needed to say _something_ – Douglas knew _exactly_ what he wanted to say, and he couldn't. He couldn't turn away, or keep walking, but he couldn't speak either. The words settled like a tangible impulse on his tongue, prickling and tart.

"Oh, sorry," Martin was saying as he patted Douglas' shoulder, reaching up ever so slightly to achieve such a feat. He wasn't that short – even now, he didn't _seem_ that short. He didn't seem even slightly cowed. Confidence always made him seem bigger somehow.

"Never fear," Douglas assured him.

"Douglas?" Martin's brow furrowed. It was only as he stared back that Douglas realised he was staring in the first place, even though he knew, he _knew_ that he was. His confusion only deepened. "Is everything alright?"

"Of course it is," Douglas replied. The words sounded weak even to him. He glanced out across the street, towards the passing vehicles and other pedestrians, and couldn't help but give in to the impulse that was holding him in some sort of flux. "Martin…"

"Yes?"

There was expectation there. Douglas wanted to speak – he couldn't. He couldn't form the words. Even the thoughts turned to dust, even as the expectation in Martin's gaze, burning more with agitation every second, strummed the yearning pull in his chest until it too burned.

"_Yes_?" Martin demanded – it was closer to an order really.

"I…" Douglas started, then snapped out of his trance. This was Martin he was looking at, talking to, leaning towards as if physically drawn. He shook his head and forced a smile that he was sure didn't reach his eyes. "No, never mind. It was nothing."

Douglas was about to turn away, to start walking again – but he heard Martin huff.

"What?" Douglas asked. Seeing the petulant pout, Martin's hand clenching against his waist as he glared at him, was enough to make him feel more like himself.

"Douglas, if you want to say something – _just say it_," Martin instructed. There was something in his eyes, something that Douglas had been catching glimpses of for well-on a year now, and yet he couldn't quite decipher it. The other man threw up his hands and ran one through his hair. "What do you think I'm going to do?"

"I told you, it's not important," Douglas insisted.

"It is though," Martin said. He didn't seem to notice that there was only a foot or so of space between them. He was as single-minded as ever. "You keep…"

"I keep _what_, Martin?" Douglas very nearly growled. It was nerves, he told himself; wrong-footed as he was, he most definitely _wasn't_ pinned in place, or shivering imperceptibly as the lump in his throat grew more pronounced. Try as he might, he couldn't quite stand still long enough to get comfortable on the soles of his feet.

"You keep going to say something, and then … a-and then nothing," Martin said. It was near enough to an accusation that Douglas bristled, even as Martin carried on without pausing. There was heat in his tone, and irritable lines tugged at his face as he made sharp, yet clumsy, gesticulations between them. "And it's not just tonight, or today. Y-you keep wanting to say something and I _know_ you do,"

"Martin-"

"I know, Douglas," Martin cut him off. "I do, I know."

"Know _what_?"

At that, Martin finally seemed to fall victim to the same insurmountable pressure. He awkwardly swallowed, cleared his throat, and rubbed at the back of his neck. He tugged at his sleeves for a moment, but the determination that carried his every movement didn't cease. Motioning between the two of them,

"That – _this_ – us!" Martin exclaimed. Now, he refused to make eye contact. His gaze flitted about, to the grim pavement to the patch of air over Douglas' shoulder. "I-I mean, I know there's something – a-and I know that it's _that_ you want to talk about but every time you do – since when have you been…"

"Been what, Martin?" Douglas demanded, barely louder than a breath. "Since when have I been what? What do you think I'm not saying?"

An end to the conversation would have been wiser but he didn't want that. The aching pull was burning at his windpipe, begging to tug him closer, nearer to something that he could taste on the tip of his tongue. He couldn't say it – but Martin, _Martin_ would say everything and anything if he was riled enough. If only he would say it first – Douglas didn't _dare_ say it. He had staggered into enough arguments like this – moments where truths and feelings were spilt – to know how badly they ended. He never came out of them with someone by his side. Not a single one.

"There's something. A-and I'm not talking about talking now, I'm talking about _this," _Martin continued. He twitched as if he wanted to pace but he didn't. He remained in front of Douglas, within reach, finally meeting his gaze again. _"_This _something_, that we're not talking about but you _want_ to, a-and I'm listening, I am, but you're just not-"

"I'm afraid you've lost me, Captain," Douglas snapped, his patience fraying.

"For god's sake!"

Douglas saw Martin roll his eyes. He heard him huff as his chest heaved. He was familiar enough with both to expect them without experiencing them for himself. He didn't expect Martin to move.

Before Douglas had time to react, Martin's hands were on his cheeks, fingers digging into the flesh a little too hard. Martin's lips were warm on his, pressing so hard that the damp, hot, sudden motion was drowned out by the scrape his chin and the awkward bump of his nose against the other mans. A crisp shirt creased beneath Douglas' fingers as the air left his lungs – and the next moment he was cold, staggering backwards without really moving, as he blinked and regained his senses.

When his head cleared, Martin had stepped back, barely more than a foot. His cheeks were scarlet, his lips the same, but his expression was one of determined frustration.

"Martin?"

"_That_… th-that is what I'm talking about," Martin said. He huffed again and ran a hand through his ginger hair, shifting his stance as if he hadn't just been kissing his First Officer. This time, when he confronted Douglas, there was no attempt to look away. "There has been something there – between us, a-and I swear you keep trying a-and I'm ready to listen and you just…" Suddenly, Martin paled and his throat bobbed. As Douglas stared at him, catching up with the spinning that had replaced the lump in his throat, Martin inhaled sharply and stammered. "Unless that wasn't… Oh, god, it wasn't that."

"_Martin_…"

"Douglas, just tell me that was what you were going for."

Douglas couldn't speak at first. Sure that if he moved he would sink through the pavement, he blinked and ran his eyes over the other man's face. The longing hadn't faded. If anything, it was worse but it didn't quite ache. It was a numb, rather sweet sort of yearning. The sheer panic on Martin's face, as it ran through his entire form, was so familiar a state that the words crept fully formed onto his tongue.

"It was," he said.

Relief flooded Martin's form and Douglas was shocked when he didn't sag completely.

"Oh… o-oh… good, then," Martin gasped. He pressed a hand to his chest. "Good."

In spite of himself, Douglas felt his face split into a smile of sorts. It wasn't comfortable, but it also wouldn't face. As Martin stepped closer, slipping his hands into his pockets, Douglas did the same, turning just enough that they were facing each other completely. The urge to turn away still itched at the back of his mind, but he dismissed it.

"I just wasn't sure if you-"

"You could have asked," Martin interrupted.

"You could have made it _less_ clear that you often can't stand me," Douglas retorted, swallowing a pang of resentment.

"You drive me insane – things, like this – you, building it up and then backing away – b-but I've never said I can't stand you," Martin said. The frenetic air that surrounded him disappeared, and all of a sudden he was just him, standing in the street, the bridge of his nose scrunched so intensely that it was impossible to look anywhere else. "Douglas I…"

"Martin, leave it," Douglas sighed. He brushed the back of his hand past Martin's arm.

"Wh-what?"

"You don't have to say anything," Douglas said. Again, he ran his hand down Martin's arm, lingering a little longer. Conscious of the fact that if they kept talking, he would have to say _something _at some point, he forced a half-grimace and patted Martin's elbow. "Well, you have always been a man of action rather than one of words."

For a moment, Martin just stared at him. Then that charming smile, the one that came just before the Captain tried to one-up him, wiped the anxious lines from Martin's face. Grinning, Martin swung closer and nudged Douglas with his elbow.

"Have I left you speechless?" he asked, voice low and bubbling with a smug laugh.

"Don't flatter yourself, Martin," Douglas scoffed.

"I _have_."

"_Martin_."

Douglas waited only a moment more. Martin was refusing to look away, and it seemed like a good idea. Giving in to the unwavering pull, he reached out and, far more gently than Martin had, touched the other man's cheek. He leaned across for a kiss, and then pulled back an inch, moving slowly as he let the pleasure of doing so wash over him.

Again, Martin huffed and surged forwards, pressing a harder, longer kiss to his lips before retreating. He let out a nervous laugh as they stepped out of each other's space, and ran a finger under his nose.

"I-I'm not actually sure what to do now," Martin stammered. "I've already shouted at you twice today."

"That's a bit of an understatement," Douglas replied as he recalled being scolded on every bus they had ridden on that day. Still… he couldn't muster any sense of apathy. It was one of those days that he was sure they would look back on and laugh about, like the sugar brick and the incident with the bears. Taking a deep breath, he glanced over his shoulder, then back to Martin. "How about I walk you back to the hotel?"

"_Walk me back_?" Martin repeated. "If anyone's walking anyone back, it's me. Come on."

With that, he strode to Douglas' side, placing a hand on his back to propel him forwards. He kept moving down the pavement, and Douglas was given no choice but to march alongside him, frowning as if aghast.

"Martin, in all my years, I've never been _walked_ anywhere," Douglas remarked. Increasing his pace, he hooked his arm through Martin's. This was more like it. He knew what he would do if it was someone else, and he knew how to deal with a competitive co-pilot – not let him win. "_You_ come on."

As the two of them hurried down the pavement, Martin made a good show of being annoyed whilst simultaneously laughing as he managed to stay half a step ahead of him. Douglas tried to slow their pace, to stroll, but ended up somewhere in between.

"Excuse you, _I'm_ the Captain."

"Not on a date you're not."

They jerked to a stop so quickly that Douglas almost tripped. Martin yanked him around to face him.

"S-so this _is_ a date?"

"It's always a date if it goes well," Douglas replied. Somehow, he managed to sound confident even though his heart was threatening to burrow into his throat. With his free hand, he adjusted Martin's collar, and was pleased to note that the other man didn't move away, only blushed and smirked as if pleased with himself.

Martin sighed and brought Douglas' closer, turning them back towards the hotel.

"Come on," he said. "_I'm_ walking us back."

Scoffing, Douglas stole one final sideways glance at the Captain. It _was _a lovely sight. A lovely feeling, too. Not too different from normal. With a slight nudge, he slipped out of Martin's hold.

"Not if I get there first."


End file.
